


Guilt Misplaced, Actions Not So Misguided

by DilynAliceBlake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged John, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:30:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DilynAliceBlake/pseuds/DilynAliceBlake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is feeling hazy after a dental appointment due to some pain meds, and it's taking everything Sherlock has not to react to his flatmate's many advances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

     John smiled sleepily up at Sherlock as he was being herded toward the hospital's exit. Sherlock did his best to ignore the dreamy eyed gaze. These were not the circumstances he had imagined being the focus of it under. The backdrop of the approaching dusk did nothing to assist in the endeavor.

 

            "Come along, John," Sherlock said, doing his best to seem put upon, as oposed to flustered at his companion's attentions.. The blogger giggled and snuggled into Sherlock, leaning heavily on the man for support. "What, am I to carry you?" Recieving no immediate reply, Sherlock huffed a sigh and wrapped his arm around John. An action taken to better hold his weight and prevent the drugged man from falling over. 'Not,' he assured himself, 'for any reason other than fulfilling my duties as friend.'

 

            "Sh'l'ck," John slurred, "'m I drugged?"

 

            A smile slipped through Sherlock's defenses. "Mmm, yes. To the gills."

 

            John blinked blearily up at the detective, halting their progress across the sidewalk. "Buddit wasn't _you_ this time."

 

            A pang went through Sherlock at the statement, so sure, so _trusting_. He felt the sudden need to swallow. "Ah, no John, it, it wasn't me this time." Clearing his throat, he began walking once more, heading towards the waiting taxi.

 

            "Oh, mmkay," John said, as if that was that. Perhaps it was.

 

            The rest of the walk to the cab was gloriously free of sentiment of any sort, Sherlock managing to keep his eyes ahead and pretend John wasn't pressed enticingly to his side. Until, as they were entering the cab, Sherlock gracefully and John clumsily clambering, John's hand slipped from Sherlock's side to his bum. And _groped_.

 

            Sherlock let out a rather undignified yelp. "John!"

 

            John's reply to this was to smile his most endearing smile. Before pinching Sherlock through his trousers.

 

            Sherlock settled the rest of the way in, and snapped the buckle with a click which held an air of _finality_. John was under the influence of quite a lot of rather strong pain medication, and could not be expected to act with any sort of rationality. Sherlock just had to keep in mind that John was not responsible for-- He let out a hiss as John's groping hands moved their attentions to the _front_ of his trousers. Despite the clumsiness of the ministrations as John nuzzled Sherlock's chest, they were not unwanted.

 

            ...Clumsiness...

 

            Sherlock jerked, snapping his eyes open and John's hands into his, holding them midair and safely at chest level. John made a displeased 'murr' sort of noise, but settled back into his own seat.

 

            Sherlock licked his lips. He just had to keep in mind that John was not responsible for his actions presently. No matter how much the dark haired sleuth might wish it otherwise, John had no interest of that sort in Sherlock, and would never do such things whilst sober. All Sherlock had to do was get the doctor settled into bed, and then he could retreat to the sanctity of his mind palace. Surely his self-control could manage _that_.

 

            John crawled over Sherlock to get out of the cab, rather than exiting via his own door. Sherlock looked down at the wriggling mass of dopey smiles and drowsy giggles in his lap before groaning resignedly.

 

            "I'm doomed."


	2. Chapter 2

 

            When Sherlock opened the door to 221B it was with John plastered rather suggestively to his back, arms laced around his torso. Sherlock had never resented the cumbersome coat so much. When the detective was helping the snuggly jumper clad man up the stairs, it was with several kisses sloppily applied to his neck. Hoping to circumvent a repeat of earlier, his back was firmly against the door to the flat as he attempted to finangle it open. Progress on this task was slowed considerably when John took it upon himself to nibble his collarbone. Sherlock could not contain a low rumbling moan.

 

            "'s good?" John asked.

 

            "Yes, mm, yes...No! No, not good. Taking advantage of one's flatmate while drugged is not good."

 

            John pouted. "Y'sure?" He stood on tiptoe and blinked cobalt eyes at the man, before pressing a kiss clumsily into cupid's bow lips. It took several seconds of (divine) kissing before Sherlock came back to himself.

 

            "Yes," he sounded reluctant, so reiterated. "Yes, I'm sure."

 

            "I can make you _un_ sure." John said. Sherlock deemed that impossible, right up until a rather intense snogging session on the couch made him re-label that statement as merely im _probable_ , before the steady stream of desperate mewls escaping from his mouth as John rocked slowly, steadily atop his lap had him admit it to be _truth_.

 

            "John John John," he chanted, in time with the canting of the blonde man's hips, head thrown aside to give John better access to where he was aggressively marking Sherlock's throat, alternating between teasing nips and delicious suction.

 

            Sherlock had slipped his hands under John's jumper, and was blearily trying to calculate how much alcohol might be needed for a similar affect to be achieved, when John said something which stopped him cold.

 

            "Mmm, thass nice Sugar," he practically drawled, grinding against Sherlock for emphasis.

 

            The arrival of Mycroft himself could not have halted Sherlock's actions more quickly than the endearment. Because John was drugged. John was under an outside influence, and his actions were not his own. Sherlock, however, was completely in control, and letting this charade of an encounter continue. Not only that, he had been entertaining ideas of taking advantage of John not just tonight, but in the future as well. Had he decided on that course of action and not gotten the desired results from alcohol, Sherlock had not doubt that he would have attempted other means. He doubted the 'not good to drug your friends without their knowledge and consent' rule made an exception for aphrodisiacs.

 

            No wonder John thought him heartless. Was he really so selfish? 'No,' he decided. 'Not when it comes to John. John's happiness must be priority, if I am to come close to being worthy of having him in my life.'

 

            That decided, Sherlock shoved John to the side and onto another couch cushion, ignoring any protests from the man and making a hasty retreat to his own bedroom. After what he had deemed an adequate amount of time had passed, Sherlock crept out back into the livingroom.

 

            John was there, lying curled inward slightly, flushed and snoring lightly. He was drooling a bit, and Sherlock wondered how far past his walls the roots of sentiment must have grown, how deeply they had become entwined if he found the sight in any way endearing. He retreaved a glass of water and John's antibiotics, putting both within sight of the blogger, as he would no doubt be awaking bleary and cottonmouthed. Next he fetched a blanket, tucking John in snugly.

 

            John snuffled at the disturbance, mumbling out a few nearly unintelligible words before settling back into his slumber.

 

            Key word, nearly.

 

            "Love you, Sherlock."

 

            The last of his walls crumbled to dust, just as his heart shattered. Sherlock would never be able to delete those words, not when they were his fondest dream. Hearing them now was bittersweet at best. He would have the memory, always, of John's voice thick with sleep mumbling out the words with fond, almost familiar ease. But it wasn't real. It wasn't real, and Sherlock daren't hold out hope of ever hearing it again.

 

            Still, he closed his eyes against the pain, and carded his fingers slowly, gently, just the once through John's soft golden hair.

 

            "I love you, John," he said quietly, barely more than a whisper. He again retreated to his room, locking the door and putting the memories from tonight away, locked in a small ornate treasure box, to be opened and relived only under the direst of circumstances. In his disconnect from the outside world, Sherlock didn't even notice the tears streaking their way silently down his cheeks.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's prediction's proved true, and the next morning John Hamish Watson awoke feeling absolutely bloody awful. The nausea, however, didn't kick in until he entertained the idea that some of the foggy fantasies drifting about his consciousness may have been memories, rather than dreams. Ears ringing with statements about drugged flatmates taking advantage of their friends, John forced himself up and began to make tea with trembling hands. Sherlock was his best mate, and he'd...jeezus, how could he have done anything like that? Sherlock had made it very clear that he wasn't interested, and John had gone and, like a total twat, acted on all those urges he usually kept so well under wraps. He had practically assaulted the man! Memories, unbidden, of Sherlock pressed quite appealingly between John and the front door, flowed into focus in John's mind.

Ceramic mug crashed loudly to the floor, shattering on tile.

How in the bloody hell was John supposed to ask for forgiveness from the man?

Sherlock entered the kitchen to find John curled up on the floor with his head between his knees. The hopes he hadn't managed to kill the night before died at the sight of John's obvious revulsion at his past actions now. 

Right then. 

Just have to go on as normal and pray that John went with it. Perhaps they could avoid the entire subject and a rather nasty confrontation. Surely if they both acted as if it hadn't happened then the awkwardness would pass. Perhaps John would be so keen to avoid remembering that he wouldn't even be terribly angry at Sherlock.

"All right there, John?"

John steeled himself for an unpleasant, exposing, and embarrassing discussion. "I--"

"Mouth feeling okay?"

Mouth? Oh, the surgery. The blasted dental surgery which had led to all this.

It suddenly occurred to John that Sherlock may have found what had happened so distasteful as to have just altogether deleted it in its entirity. Ignoring the pang of something he was unwilling to identify, John took an unsteady breath and nodded, holding out his hand for help up. The gesture was automatic, as natural as the way Sherlock seemed to not notice it at all, breezing from the room, casual and cold once John's physical well-being was affirmed. John knew better. The man noticed everything.

'Everything,' John thought, filling with dread, 'might just be about how much I've ruined.'


	4. Chapter 4

Their interactions had been rather strained over the past few hours, a cold mockery of the casual comfort the duo usually enjoyed. Sherlock had noted record levels of discomfort in John's demeanor, and it was causing a strange, creepy sort of crawling underneath his skin. It reminded him of the writhing worms he had catalogued as a boy, cold and slimy, relentlessly undulating.

 

            ' _Guilt_ ,' his mind identified. John shifted in his seat for the third time in half as many minutes. Sherlock admitted to himself that perhaps avoidance had not been what the doctor ordered, after all.

 

            He then winced internally at the chosen analogy.

 

            John shifted yet again, trying to work up the nerve to voice the apology he had been dreading. Things obviously could not stand as they were, and even if Sherlock refused the apology, John would feel better for having gotten it out there. If the worst happened, John would just find a new place to live. Maybe not even in London. Moving on wouldn't be easy, but John had done it before, he could do it again. Probably. Well, either way, what he couldn't do was allow for this to go on any longer.

"Um...Sherlock," John began, "Yesterday, when I was drugged, some things happened- Well, not exactly. They didn't just happen. Uh, I did some things, which you may or may not have deleted--"

"I didn't," Sherlock's voice cut in quietly. 

"What?" John questioned, uncertain.

"I didn't delete it," Sherlock's tone stayed soft in a way John wasn't accustomed to. "I didn't delete any of it. I couldn't."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I think I've had like... half a bottle of homemade wine??  More probably.  So what I'm going to do, is type just whatever I want for the chapter.  With my eyes closed.  LoL jk.  Eyes open.  Wide open.  Why were they open.**

 

"You didn't?" John echoed.  "You...Couldn't..."   John wasn't entirely sure how that was supposed to make him feel.

"Don't repeat yourself," Sherlock insisted, "It makes you sound dim.  No, of course I couldn't.  It seems you are destined, John Watson, to haunt my nights as memories as well as dreams."

That, John admitted to himself, did not sound good.  "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I--"

"No no," Sherlock interrupted, "I understand.  Your inhibitions were severely lowered, you would never want me in that way, it was all just one big mistake.  We've both apologized," well, Sherlock hadn't, but he didn't think he could bring himself to voice all that he had done wrong.  "Let's just move on--"

"Wait, _what?!?_ " John had been been caught up in his own guilt, wrapping around him and muffling Sherlock's words as it had been, but he definitely hadn't misheard that bit there in the middle.

" _I_ would never want  _you_ in that way?  Sherlock, you're a bloody sex god incarnate, Narcissus would envy you your beauty, your lips and voice are made of sin!"

Somewhere in his rant on the merit's of Sherlock's physical form John's passion had lead him to rise, but now Sherlock's intense eyes bid him to sit.

Sherlock's voice was a threatening whisper, disbelief coloring it with a layer of ice which chilled John to his bones in the best of ways.  "Sit. And. Ex. Plain."  The sentence was stilted but it's meaning was clear, and it's seriousness was impressed upon the soldier.

John's knees promptly turned to jelly at being the full focus of the detective's scrutiny, and sensual shivers ran up his spine.  He sat, and looked up at the taller man with a level of nervousness which could only come from having hope dangled in front of one desperate for it.

Influenced by the atmosphere, John's voice, too, was quiet.  "You're dreams, when you say 'haunting,' perchance do you mean..."  John bit his lip.  He daren't finish the sentence, for fear it being shot down.

"I mean, John Watson, that visions of you flushed with pleasure, my name upon your lips, have and will evermore haunt my every waking hour which isn't already consumed and occupied by my work."  Seeing the effect his words were having on John, Sherlock gained confidence.  Allowing hope to flare enough that he might take this one risk, he lowered his voice to a purr and continued.  "I mean, John Watson, that I would love nothing more than to again be pinned as I was between you and a door.   _I mean, Jo_ _hn Watson, that I desire you in the most carnal of ways, and would have you sober for it._ "


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:  I like this story, and I want to thank the people who reviewed.  So I'm putting up another slapdash slightly tipsy chapter, along with this apology for content quality or lack thereof.**

 

'That,' John though, as he gazed up at Sherlock, 'That was pretty straight forward.'  John very much doubted that he was misinterpreting  _that._ He let his eyes slip half shut and allowed himself a moment of indulgence, just moment to breathe and let everything sink in.  The hope in his chest bloomed into the realization of love requited, and John opened up his arms, letting his body language speak for itself.

In less than a blink Sherlock was sprawled into John's lap, quick and sloppy kisses being placed upon John's neck as if Sherlock feared the privilege would be taken from him.

"Sherl," John practically crooned, letting his pent up affection for the adorable man on his lap overflow.  "Sherlock, love, slow down, it's alright.  It's okay.  We have plenty of time.  All the time in the world."

Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of John's neck.  "Less than three months," he sulked.

"What?" John asked.

"Your average girlfriend lasts less than three months.  Hardly all the time in the world."

"My average girlfriend," John huffed out in a laugh, "Lasts exactly as long as it takes you to scare her away.  And before you even bring up Sarah, _she_ lasted the exact amount of time it took her to realize I was _already_ head over heels _for_   _you_.  So, Sherlock Holmes, the Great Consulting Detective, I would say that we," and here John gave into the impulse to squeeze Sherlock's rear rather possessively, "have _all the time in the world._ "

"I-- Oh."  Sherlock sounded suddenly rather small, and managed to look down at John whilst giving the impression of looking  _up_.  "Me too.  I love you too, I mean.  Have loved you too.  I--"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Shut up."

And before Sherlock could become even a little bit offended, the love of his life was kissing the breath from him again.  This time, there was no guilt, no misunderstandings, and despite the many arguments which surely lay ahead, it felt like the beginning of the detective's own happily ever after.


End file.
